The War Within
by Center of the Galaxy
Summary: Sam could never be the hunter that his father expected or the happy partner that Dean wanted. Deep down, he wanted out. But, he could never escape the family business. He was in that for life. *trigger warning: suicidal!Sam, depressed!Sam, two-shot*


_**Author's Note:**_ _Been working on this piece on and off for a while now. It's one that is near and dear to my heart._ _ **Please note this piece deals with the ups and down of depression. There is suicidal ideation and a suicide attempt in this story. If this bothers you, please do not read.**_ _I've always felt like Sam could struggle with depression and it's a direction I wish the show would explore. Regardless, I think that Sam is a fighter and a survivor so I admire that about him. Anyways, please enjoy!_

* * *

" _You have suffered enough_

 _And warred with yourself_

 _It's time that you won."_

— _Damian McGinty, "Falling Slowly"_

* * *

If Sam had to stop and think about it—really think about it—it all began when he was 13. That was the age when he realized he didn't want to be a hunter and when he found out that the destiny that lied before him wasn't the one he wanted. The realization had come to him out of the blue really. He'd just been sitting at his desk in English class, listening to his teacher lecture about _Hamlet_ and that famous line, "To be or not to be, that is the question."

And boom—Sam Winchester realized that no, he did not want to be a carbon copy of his father. He didn't want to spend his life hunting monsters in the dark, with blood staining his hands, with the very real possibility of Death lurking around him every time he went outside whatever house they were squatting in that week. So, in that very moment, he decided he wouldn't be a hunter. No, Sam would escape his destiny. He'd go to college, earn a degree that would make his father and Dean proud and then, finally, they could all just be a normal family together.

No more brushes with danger. No more fearing the phone ringing because it might hold horrible news. No, that would all be replaced with white picket fences, with family barbecues and sitting on the hood of the Impala with his brother, watching the stars shoot across the sky.

They'd be safe.

More importantly, they would be together.

And when Sam thinks about it, that's all he really wants.

* * *

Of course, John takes the news just the way Sam expects he would.

His father denies it at first, but when Sam insists that yes, he does want to quit the family business and no, he hasn't been possessed—well, that's when it gets ugly. John takes his youngest aside and tells him—no orders him—to stop thinking about having a "normal" life.

"We're not normal, Sammy," John says softly, placing a hand on his son's shoulder, trying to offer some sort of comfort, "You and Dean, you're needed. People out there . . . they'll die without you." John smiles somewhat, awkwardly patting Sam's shoulder now. He's never been good at comforting his youngest—that's always been Dean's specialty—but it's clear that he's done with this discussion.

"But—" Sam begins to protest, but John sighs, causing Sam to stop before he even begins.

"This is who you are, Sam." John firmly informs him, "It's who you're meant to be."

When Dean returns home an hour later and sees Sam sulking at the kitchen table, he tries to make it better. He offers to buy Sam some "rabbit food" and take him to the library, but Sam just shakes his head.

His life of normalcy, his dream of having his family safe and together—it's never going to happen.

"Sam?" Dean presses, voice growing more and more concerned by the second, "What happened?"

"Nothing." Sam lies.

Sam Winchester, welcome to your life.

* * *

That's when the depression starts.

But, of course, depression doesn't exist in their world. It's a sign of weakness, something to bury deep down and ignore. So Sam forces himself to train twice as hard, to do his research twice as well—anything to keep his mind off of that empty void that's threatening to consume him.

Because, this is his life after all.

But the thing about depression is that it always is there, lurking beneath the surface. It's a monster without a face, an enemy that can't really be destroyed. When Sam doesn't feel hopeless, he finds himself staying longer in bed, exhaustion eating away at him, his mood declining. He grows more and more irritable and sometimes, in the dead of night, he'll just stare upwards at the stucco ceiling and wonder if this is really going to be his life.

Dean does his best to try and help.

His big brother is always there with an encouraging word or a comforting grin. A new book here, a fancy salad there. He's always trying to keep his little brother's spirits up and Sam appreciates it, really he does, but sometimes, he just wants to scream.

After all, it doesn't change anything.

He's still trapped in a life that he doesn't want, on a path that he can't stomach walking on. The sadness is all consuming and even though Sam pushes it down and tries not to think about it, he can't get rid of it.

* * *

School is a reprieve.

At school, at least, he can pretend to be normal. He can act like his life isn't one huge cosmic joke and maybe that's why he studies so hard for each and every test, why he always gets a transcript of his grades before they switch schools because deep down, there's still that spark of hope.

Hope that one day he can be normal and get out.

Hope that one day his father and brother will understand.

Sam clings to that spark of hope.

* * *

"Sam. Focus."

He's fifteen now and they're on a hunt, chasing down a rogue werewolf that gave their father the slip a few towns over. He's been feeling pretty good these past few weeks—he's passed his difficult _Great Gatsby_ exam and he's on track to getting into Advanced English next year, not to mention the fact that the cute girl in his Algebra class, Christy Swanson, has started to flirt with him. He's getting along with his father more. In fact, the eldest Winchester actually praised his youngest for skills at using a ritual to bring down a crazed witch.

"See, Sammy?" Dean had patted him on the back, beaming as bright as the sun, "Things are looking up."

Dean has been nothing but supportive. He's Sam's lifeline, his port in the storm that is this sadness. Without Dean, Sam would just be adrift. But with his big brother by his side, Sam feels grounded.

Life should be good, really.

But the sadness is still there, a whisper in the dark recesses of his mind, asking why, why does he have to hunt, why does he have to suffer? Yet with Dean by his side, at least the voice has quieted.

"Sammy," Dean stops in the middle of the dirt path, his grip on his gun tightening ever so slightly, "You with me?"

"I'm good." Sam replies softly. He's got his own gun in his grip and for a brief second, he wonders what it would feel like to place that cool metal against his temple and just finally—

"Sam?" Dean's eyeing him closer now, that trained gaze scanning his little brother for any source of distress.

Sam shakes his head and tosses the thought aside, "Let's do this."

It scares him though that he isn't more terrified about dying.

* * *

Sam supposes he should be afraid at all the blood pouring out from his side and onto the dirt of the forest floor. Really, his side hurts, but it's also strangely cold and all he feels like he's floating, distantly removed from the shouts of his brother as he subdues his attacker—the werewolf's girlfriend of all people. The werewolf is long gone, and he knows that John won't be pleased. He'll expect better from Sam, stronger research, better analysis of the situation.

"Sammy," Dean's visage suddenly appears in Sam's line of sight, blurry and flickering in and out of darkness. Dean wears a tortured grin, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. He's scared and that should freak Sam out because Dean never gets scared. But instead, Sam can't really bring himself to care. Dean applies pressure to the gunshot and Sam winces. Dean quickly whispers, "Sorry, Sammy, sorry, just keep your eyes open, okay? We're gonna get you patched up, you'll be fine, just wait, Sammy, you'll see."

Dean's rambling now—yet another sign of how fucked Sam is. Still, Sam doesn't like to see his older brother this worried. He moves his hand, fingers brushing against Dean's bloody hands pressed into his side and Sam musters up a smile, "S'okay, Dean," His words are slurring now, but he doesn't care, "I'm free."

Dean eyes widen ever so slightly before the darkness consumes Sam.

And then he's gone.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _This piece was way too long to post as a one shot so I will post the second chapter soon. Please review if you have a moment. Thanks!_


End file.
